The Waterfall Of The Moon

But she scarcely had time to make more than a cursory examination before Patrick was bending down beside her, taking off his gloves, and disentangling the silken strands with gentle fingers. He was very close to her suddenly, his breath mingling with hers, and when his fingers brushed her cheek tingling impulses of awareness ran down into her neck. Then she was free and he helped her to her feet. She brushed herself down with a careless hand and made a helpless gesture.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly. “I don't know how I should have managed without you.”

“Don't you?” His tone was ironic, and he appeared to be watching her rather intently.

“No.” Ruth combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to create some order.

“Oh, I'm pretty sure someone would have happened along at just the right moment to play knight errant to a lady in distress!”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged again, turning away to gather up the horses’ reins. “Just that you're the type of young woman who usually manages to get into difficulties at the most convenient times.”

Ruth didn't quite know how to take this. He had spoken in his usual polite way, and yet she sensed a note of reproof. Why?

Walking round him, she said: “Do you mind explaining that remark?”

“Surely it's obvious.”

“I'm afraid not. Not to me, at least.” Ruth felt a vague uneasiness invading her stomach.

“All right, Miss Farrell.” He held her gaze deliberately. “What do you want of me?”

Ruth was taken aback. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think you do. But I'll explain anyway.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and began to put them on. “For some reason best known to yourself, you want me to pay attention to you – to be interested in you!”

“How – how dare you?” she gasped, but he went on as though she had not spoken.

“You invite me to ride with you – you even invite me to your parents’ home for dinner – and on the acquaintance of a couple of hours. Finally, when no apparent success is being achieved, you use the oldest trick in the book – that of feminine weakness in adversity!”

“That's not true.” Ruth was indignant. “You're not honestly meaning to tell me that you think I tripped over that root deliberately? That I tangled my hair in that bush just so you could rescue me?”

He made a dismissing movement of his shoulders. “And you didn't?”

“Of course I didn't.”

Ruth stared at him angrily, grasping her horse's reins with clenched fists. Her immediate impulse was to get on the mare's back and ride back to the house as quickly as she could. Once there, she could collect her belongings and leave without meeting this objectionable male ever again.

But such behaviour would only strengthen his belief in her childishness, and that she could not allow. Summoning all her coolness and composure, she said icily: “At least my conceit could never measure up to your own, Mr. Hardy!”

She thought he might be angry then. She thought he might make some retaliatory remark which would enable her to vent her own pent-up anger on him. But she was wrong. He burst out laughing.

Tears stung her eyes. No one had ever laughed at her before and it was a humiliating experience. Grasping the pommel, she climbed abruptly into the saddle, and digging in her heels urged the mare forward out of the copse of trees. She didn't care which direction it was taking her. She just wanted to put as much distance between herself and Patrick Hardy as she possibly could.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_868b7f8a-0a2a-5518-9d01-39f84364bde3)

WHEN she finally returned to the house it was long past lunchtime, and Julie met her in the hall looking most concerned.

“Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? We were getting quite worried about you.”

“I'm sorry.” Ruth managed a smile. “I'm afraid I went further than I intended.”

“You shouldn't go so far alone,” reproved Julie, shaking her head. “I didn't think you'd go riding at all when I couldn't go with you.”

Ruth hesitated. “No – well, it filled the morning in.”

“Yes,” Julie nodded, and Ruth guessed she knew nothing about Patrick Hardy's involvement. “Well, the meal will be cold now. Shall I ask Cook to make you an omelette or something?”

“Heavens, no!” Ruth took off her parka and slung it over the banister ready to take upstairs. “A sandwich in the kitchen would be fine.” She glanced round. “Er – where is everyone?”

“Mummy and Daddy and Patrick are in the library having coffee. I was watching for you. Patrick said if you weren't back in fifteen minutes he would go and look for you.”

“That was kind of him.” Ruth's tone was dry, but Julie didn't notice it.

“Yes. Well, come along into the kitchen. We can talk there. Mike came up this morning before leaving for London. I think he expected to see you, but he said he couldn't hang about because he has to be back in College tonight, or something.”

“Yes, that's right. He does.” Ruth nodded, accompanying her friend into the warm, delightfully odorous atmosphere of the kitchen. “I'm glad he's gone, though. Sometimes he can be rather intense.”

Mrs. Morris, the Stephensons’ cook, soon provided Ruth with a plate of home-cured ham and salad, and a jug of steaming coffee which the two girls shared. Seated at the table talking, Mrs. Morris dozing over her knitting at the fire, created a feeling of warmth and security, and Ruth felt some of the chill which had entered her stomach that morning leaving her. Not that she mentioned such things to Julie. Her brief association with Patrick Hardy would not bear examination, not yet.

“You are staying until tomorrow, aren't you?” Julie asked now. “It's almost three o'clock. It will be dark in an hour.”

Ruth hesitated. She didn't want to stay, but having committed herself to the extent of leaving it too late in the day to drive back in daylight, she didn't see what else she could do. Her father did not approve of her driving far at night.

“All right,” she agreed. “But I must ring Papa.”

Julie smiled at her friend's use of the Victorian form of address. Ruth had always called her father Papa, it was a kind of pet name, and had caused a good deal of amusement when they were at school.

As Ruth dressed for dinner that evening her misgivings returned in full measure. After all, she had told Patrick Hardy that she was leaving that afternoon. After what he had said this morning, she was quite prepared to believe that he would think she had stayed on for the sole purpose of seeing him again. Pacing about her bedroom, she considered making some excuse not to go down, but then squashed the idea. She was not a coward. She would go down to dinner and she would show him that she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever!

Her choice of evening wear was limited. She had come down ostensibly for one night only, for the party, and apart from the dress she had worn then, she had nothing else suitable. Still, he had not seen her at the party and it was a most attractive gown. Made of cream velvet, gathered beneath her breasts to fall straight and smooth to the ankle, long sleeves reaching a point at the wrists, it was the perfect complement to her intense fairness, the low round neck revealing the creamy flesh of her throat.

Even so, she trembled a little as she descended the stairs and crossed the carpeted hall to the lounge where Julie's father and mother usually had an aperitif before their meal.

She was the last to arrive, and therefore she felt as if she had timed her entrance, which simply was not so. Nevertheless, her appearance did attract attention and she focused determinedly on Julie's mother, refusing to look in Patrick Hardy's direction.

However, Mrs. Stephenson was unaware that they had been introduced, and to Ruth's chagrin she drew her towards him, smiling and saying: “You haven't met Ruth, have you, Pat?”

Patrick, dark and slightly foreign-looking with that amazing tan, looked disturbingly masculine in his evening clothes. The men were not wearing dinner jackets, but they were both dressed in dark suits. Seemingly unperturbed by the situation, he said: “We have met, Marion. We had breakfast together, didn't we, Miss Farrell?”

Ruth's lips felt stiff. “Yes. Yes, that's right,” she said uncomfortably, aware that Julie was staring at her in surprise.

“Oh, I see,” Marion nodded. “You must both be early risers.” She smiled. “That's all right, then. We all know one another.”

Ruth moved back to Julie's side and accepted a glass of sherry from her father. Then dinner was announced and they all walked into the dining room which adjoined the lounge, where the buffet tables had been laid out the night before. To Ruth's relief, conversation was general and there were no awkward silences. Like herself, the Stephensons found Patrick's experiences in South America fascinating, and in spite of her antagonism towards him, Ruth found herself listening with increasing interest.

Once she looked up and found his eyes upon her and for a brief moment she was hypnotised by their grey penetration. Then Julie's father said something and his attention was distracted, but the small incident served to unnerve her and she spent the remainder of the meal with her eyes glued to her plate.